


Icarus

by roomeight



Series: This Is Hardcore [3]
Category: Blur, Blur (Band)
Genre: Britpop, Gramon, M/M, blur - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 05:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15678822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roomeight/pseuds/roomeight
Summary: Damon and Graham share a difficult sort of love.





	Icarus

**Author's Note:**

> This is...unapologetically, crudely, 100% pure smut drabble. Be that as it may, I wrote this in one go and it's been on my hard drive for a while gathering dust. It was inspired by modern Gramon (as modern as your taste will allow, I suppose.) I still imagine both of them being driven mad by each other when they get together, having to hide everything from the public eye. ;) Anyway, hope you enjoy. <3 POV is Damon's.

 

 

 

 _“Never regret thy fall,_  
_O Icarus of the fearless flight_  
_For the greatest tragedy of them all_  
_Is never to feel the burning light._

\- Oscar Wilde

 

 

 

 

  
I wake up next to him, again.

Desire is a hum. A low rumble from the ground shifting underneath me. _Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me._ My hands are between Graham's legs, pressing in-between songs backstage. He doesn't even push me away this time. And God, I don't care if anyone sees us. I don't care, I want the world to see.

And he’s warm, he’s lovely. Better with age. We see each other rarely, but when we do—when I persuade this beautiful creature into my bed and my arms—he is the altar which I bow down to. I kiss his collarbone, the nape of his neck—an offering. Day old scruff chaffs across dry lips. Oral fixation. Scotch, salt, and a pink velvet head with a line that delineates each half of him. Lips wrapped around the filter of a cigarette. I make my way down, mouth wet, teeth tucked, callused fingers making roads down his thighs. My head between his legs, his knees buckle a couple of times, and I prop him up with an arm, and my face is pushed up into him. Thick, hard, beautiful.

He is spasming, grunting as he pushes me off of him. He handles me—roughly—forcing me to all fours. I drive my round ass up, showing him everything I’ve got. His hands curve around and pulling back slap both cheeks. My cock is hard and hanging between my legs, untouched and wanting. Lowering my chin, I moan loudly into a pillow. I need him, and he knows it. I arch my back and ass toward him, begging, pleading at this point.

_“Do it, do it…”_

My face crushed against the pillow, his hand imprinted into the back of my neck—pushing. It was a good feeling. Pre-cum drips down my cock and lands in a beautiful teardrop on the sheets between my thighs. I feel my legs forced apart and my mouth opened, and I am seventeen again, touching him for the first time. His first finger enters me, and I groan loudly.

I need him. I need him. I need. _Him._

My friend, my lover, my best friend. He enters me, and I hear him gasp. His hands are at either side of me, nails digging into skin. My cock is dripping wet now, buoyed between my legs. His body crushes me into the bed, and so I push back. Opposites push against each other, as we always have.

He spreads my cheeks on either side, worshipping. Watching as he slides in and out of me, cock wet, nails making tiny half circles patterns into the skin of my arse.

“Harder…”

My words do not fall on deaf ears, and so he pushes into me—roughly—so hard that I cry out. A hand wraps around my soft belly as he fucks me from behind.

My arse is raw and wanting, legs spread, and I’m warm as his cock fills me completely, sliding in and out, thick as his comes, gasping, groaning, nails digging into my back. I’m his whore. His mistress. He lifts his hand from the back of my neck.

“Get up,” he says. He pulls out and his prick is still hot and stiff and quivering from the last brutal drive.

I obey him, turning over onto my back and sitting up. He stares at me, fingers threaded between chest hair—a stark contrast to his own skinny and hairless frame. My belly rises and falls, each breath painful as I hold myself back. He goes down on me, mouth warm. I moan loudly, and then he shifts, spreading my legs apart and pulling them forward. He leans forward, kissing me on the lips, cock pulsing as it presses between our bellies.

I need him.

I push him down, fingertips tracing across his navel. There are more defined muscles there now—something new from the last time. We are both constantly changing, and I am fascinated by this. Where once was tightness is now soft, curvy. I prefer this. My hands grab around his waist and arse as I mount him, lowering myself down until I am flush with his hips. He looks up at me in awe, mouth parted, dazed.

He closes his eyes. “Talk to me,” he says, arching his neck back into the pillow. His hips rise and fall in waves, and I ride him like that for a while, soft and steady.

I lean down to his ear and using my lowest voice tell him something only he will ever hear. Something I've whispered to him since the beginning. In Colchester, in the backs of tour buses bruised and wary of each other, in regret and forgiveness as different and confusing people, in songs buried and distorted.

I want too much. Like Icarus flying too close to the sun. I ride up, sopping wet from sleeping under the pouring rain. There's a lump in my throat that I pull out with my teeth. The sky is torn away, and my wings are burning. I hold him in my arms for a few seconds, saying goodbye as I brace for the ground. I can't imagine the shape of our fate, but I am propelled by it every time I see him.

Dave, Alex, they always smile as if they know. I'm sure they do.

 

 

 

 

 

* 

The End.


End file.
